HE Anthonys were ever an untameable breed, unbowed by circumstances, and though the last but one, the present laird, was a sport from all the true type, Richard, the last of all of them, was the most uncompromising, the most indomitable of the lot.
"What good are you?" demanded his uncle, Major Anthony. "What can you do?"
"I have to thank circumstances," smiled Richard. "I can swim, I can ride, and I can sail a boat against any man I ever met."
"That's it!" swore his uncle, blowing up with rage. "Sail a boat! That's all you can do! That's all you own beyond a suit or two of clothes! Sail a boat!"
"I mean to," said Richard. "I'm only waiting for you to talk business first."
"What business? Balderdash! What d'you think I'll do for you?—a failure!—a disgrace to the Anthonys! Not one penny! Not one ha'penny!
"You're disinherited! It's automatic. The estate provided for you while there was a chance to pass an examination. That ceased when you failed for the Indian Civil. To inherit, an Anthony must enter one or other of the services. You know that. You failed. What are you here for? I'll support no able-bodied man!"
"Did you ever fight one?" wondered Dick.
"What d'ye mean?"
"I'm giving you your choice. You fight or you pay me a thousand pounds; a thousand pounds was provided in the will for every Anthony in line of succession on entering any of the services. I want that thousand."
"You want—I've heard of impudence!" his uncle stammered.
"You either fight or pay," smiled Richard without moving.
"What d'ye mean?"
"I mean I'm entitled to the money and I've come for it. Don't answer yet. Listen! Just before old MacDougal died he told me how much you paid him to break my leg by accident. He quoted your actual words—'If he's not there, MacDougal, at examination time there'll be a hundred pounds for you.' He showed me the actual hundred—the actual bank notes you gave him. He offered them to me. His son Andry has the hundred now; he knows where it came from and for what, and he has tried to get me to take it."
The Major's jaw dropped, but he spun on his heel in an attempt to bluster.
"What mare's nest is this?" he spluttered.
"He admitted that you bribed him, and I thrashed him for it just three weeks ago today. He and I are quits. He put the admission in writing and I had it witnessed; my lawyer has it now."
The Major said nothing, thoughtfully. An officer—presumably a gentleman—found out at such expedients for saving money, it is perhaps wiser if he does say nothing.
"Under the circumstances," continued Dick, "I applied for a commission in a hurry, and saw a lawyer. I know where I am and where you are. I've come for that thousand, and I'll take it now or fight—now, understand—not tomorrow or the day after—now! And I give you from now exactly five minutes to come to a decision! No, don't try to leave the room—I've got my eye on the bell, too—thirty seconds are up! Think, man—you'd better think!"
After one wild glance around him for a way of escape Major Anthony sat down and thought deliberately.
"I'll pay," he said quietly, pulling out his check book, just as Dick snapped his watch shut. "It's extortion, but I'll pay."
Dick watched him write the check, and watched him write and sign a letter to the Lamlash bankers in confirmation of it.
"Now I'm off," he said, putting both into his pocket. "You'll pay my four hundred a year to my lawyer, or he'll be after you to know why. There's only one thing more before I go—the sword—I'm the heir—I've a right to it—I want it."
"No," said Major Wallace Anthony.
"Possession," said Dick, walking to the mantelpiece, "is nine points of the law."
He took down a wonderful old claymore, basket-hilted, with a beryl set in the top of the hilt, and characters etched rather rudely down the blade. It had no scabbard; and though the blade had been kept polished by almost unnumbered generations, the weapon looked older than the mantelpiece.
"I'll take it with me," said Dick, "and if you want it back you'll have to fight for it—except on one condition, of course. The day a direct heir is born I'll bring it back if I'm at the other end of the world. Failing an heir—remember the written evidence I hold against you—and—don't—let—me—catch—you—again! Good day!"
Holding the strange sword by the blade, he strode out, straight up the road to Lamlash.
"Where away, Mr. Dicky, sir?"
The voice and the accent were a Scotsman's speaking English with the prideful accuracy of learning newly won.
"Away, that's all," said Dick. "Just away."
"Ye have the sword, I see. I'm glad ye have it. Ye'll be goin' in the yacht?"